


I'm on a highway full of red lights

by KaneNogami



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 05:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20058805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: Luffy is joy and bloody knuckles, stupid straw hat on in Summer—holes are starting to form more and more, but it's a sentimental kind of thing—the boy who lives everywhere and nowhere at once, home long abandoned, shadows having invaded it in the form of ghosts. He likes when Luffy tugs on his arm, chatting about eating together—and can you pay, I'm broke again Zoro—how the other always smells like sweat and whatever sauce he got on his shirt this time around. His band-aids are always ridiculous, straight from kid shows, covering broken nose or a gash on his cheek.





	I'm on a highway full of red lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phosphenical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phosphenical/gifts).

> Happy birthday Theo! I love you, you're such a fantastic friend and nothing makes me happier than knowing you. I hope you'll enjoy this gift~

Younger, Zoro would have looked around with a tightness in his throat, urgency in his gaze. Nowadays, the scene has become too common to hold any meaning. He has misplaced his body, which is not as unfortunate as it seems. He yawns, nap ended sooner than it should have, slumber disturbed by the heaviness in the air. Foreigners are chatting loudly as they pass by—tripping on their flip flops and holding colorful bags he couldn't care less for—probably heading back to their hotel for the evening. He should do the same, push further on his legs until he figures out where home is. Could be anywhere, honestly—a glimpse of worn-out curtains, a layer on dust on the buzzing fridge, a badly re-heated meal awaiting him—as long as he puts his mind to it.

Streets turn into a maze as soon as he goes forward, so why not simply let his feet decide, since the destination won't be the right one? This place isn't a refugee, a place where you seek comfort and attention—lives once shattered converge here, blurred gaze and mouth half-open as they sit on the pavement, unsure of what to do with themselves. Zoro has grown in this familiarity, until it wrapped around his bones alongside bandages and band-aids which won't stick no matter how he presses large palms against them. He's hobbling, unsteady, not keen on finding another dead-end, taking his time to explore the streets. People nod, not keen on waving or making anything personal—he ignores them, mostly. Silence is seldom the norm, bickering and chatter invading his ears as cards are slammed against wobbly tables, winner taking it all with glee—sometimes, cards falling off clothing, causing a sudden outburst of rage and profanities.

Apathy often wins over violence, much to his dismay. He doesn't mind the ones who stand in his path, making themselves bigger, shoulder pushed back and head lifted too high; these are the fun ones. Zoro would rather fight than rot in a corner, having given up on his existence. Joyless workers pass by, morose creatures who survive without being allowed more. The mere thought of ending like this, of losing freedom, is enough for Zoro to clench his jaw. Well—too many detours already—he should already be back for dinner.

Empty places are fine, he can hold his own weight, rather than pressing it against someone else.

“Yo! You're late today.”

Laughter has a precise timing, as if he had been waiting to mock his thoughts until that point. The voice is loud—rich and vibrant, the kind which makes something twist in his guts in the_ right way_—colors invading his eyes as the guy appears right in front of him, arms crossed behind his head with a hint of nonchalance.

“Yeah, and what Luffy?”

Should they celebrate these happy accidents, when their paths branch out of nowhere? Or be annoyed to always be in each other way? Luffy is joy and bloody knuckles, stupid straw hat on in Summer—holes are starting to form more and more, but it's a sentimental kind of thing—the boy who lives everywhere and nowhere at once, home long abandoned, shadows having invaded it in the form of ghosts. He likes when Luffy tugs on his arm, chatting about eating together—_and can you pay, I'm broke again Zoro_—how the other always smells like sweat and whatever sauce he got on his shirt this time around. His band-aids are always ridiculous, straight from kid shows, covering broken nose or a gash on his cheek. He wants to shake him for being such a moron, unable to protect himself in favor of his friends. Suicidal, Zoro would claim, if he was the kind of person allowed to make such judgment—friends protect, and he's just a passerby—or if he wanted to care.

Instead, Zoro groans, putting his arm on top of Luffy's head until he gets elbowed for such offense.

“You're always—lost, it sucks.”

He likes Luffy. The lack of pity, attention span of a snail already gone as the other starts to walk in the opposite direction, prompting Zoro to follow on an impulse. Another unsuccessful day, the warmth of July sticking to his clothes in an uncomfortable way. A storm is brewing above them, refusing to bask the place in rain and glorious thunder, much to his dismay.

“And yet, you always find me.”

“Superpower of mine! Or something like that.”

Sure. They're almost the same age, yet he didn't see Luffy for years, different schools—did he even go, that guy with the scar under his eye? He has never asked—walking by each other without stopping. He came and went, not following any pattern. On _three occasions_, he pretended to have followed a friend somewhere, only to end in another town. They live on the outskirts of Tokyo, the kind of place you leave if you can. For someone who wasn't born there—or who didn't decide to die on these streets upon arrival—that's a bizarre thing, to return each time, filled to the brim with stories. Friends he apparently found, Nami, Chopper, other idiots he hasn't met yet, bringing them back in this hopeless place so they could start over. It's the other way around, normally. People begging to be allowed out. Turning this hellhole into hotels and cheap places for foreigners might be helping on the surface, as long as you do not think too much about it. Zoro isn't a big thinker, honestly.

So, when Luffy says they are a tight group, or rather that they'll be one day, he doesn't even bother offering him a bewildered look. Instead he says 'that's fine with me'. His lips twitch into a smile, something light and without consequences. He likes Luffy for everything he is, a great listener as long as he has food, a weird kind of companion on his way home—how he returns with a cast or bandages each time, joking about them and not realizing how exhausted he looks, smile not reaching his eyes any longer, the way he leans against Zoro' shoulder, and he lets him babble about his latest adventure, both sitting on a bench, cold drinks in hands—still there isn't much between them beyond that. Zoro has always been too reserved for friendship, unsure of where to start.

There must be something about recovery, a plan to follow. Grief; crying feelings out and punching. He's good at the latter.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

“My place or yours?”

“Mine. Chopper brought back a project from school, a long text he wrote and he got a super good grade, I put in on the fridge. It's big words, but good ones—you know when you succeed at something and he wants to be a doctor—which would stop me from bleeding on the floor too often, right?”

Chatter is constant, filling the empty gaps in Zoro's heart as they walk. The other thrives on attention, on being social, surrounded by familiar faces and shoulders he can wrap his arms around. Can't say Zoro is the same. He doesn't bother mentioning it, too busy with following the rhythm he is forced to go with. Sometimes, in the midst of a sentence, Luffy will vanish to reach for something; an abandoned thing on the road, or a cat looking at him as if he had pockets stuffed with food. Zoro is left hanging, loose threads on a conversation he wasn't completely following in the first place.

They get along better when the sky is crying out, world turned battlefield. Challengers are numerous, wanting to steal the throne from the one who only cares about protecting and enjoying an interesting fight. In another world, the top (of the world, not Luffy) would be his goal, perhaps. Does he even know what he's doing? His body is swift, breaking and bending until he is the sole winner, no matter the consequences. A part of Zoro appreciates that, the other is a little bit jealous. But then, Luffy always stop before going too far, a bad hit on the edge of his wrist. That's easy, around there, to pass such gesture as an accident, to cause something impossible to fix. They disagree on that, Zoro supposes. Not that it's a topic they often push forward. He has never seen Luffy angry, doesn't look forward it.

Zoro is too familiar with nurses and doctors, the way they claim '_she died in a painless way, not even noticing_' when they are fucking liars because he was there, he held her hand and—

Fingers spread against the small of his back, someone humming against his ear.

“Let's cook tonight.”

He snorts, thoughts long gone, crushed by the bullet train that is Luffy. For the other, cooking means watching the microwave as it spins, in intense concentration—cute frown and lips pushed together for sure— food more important than the fate of the world. Aren't they strangers? Or the kind of not-friends people are when they only walk home, sharing a fight or two against bullies without hanging more than that? He has never slept over, gone before bowls even got cold after dinner. Attachment itches against his skin, a reminder of scars he got from removing bandages without waiting long enough.

One moment, as Luffy is pressed against him, warmth spreading between them, and Zoro wonders if he couldn't spend his existence lost between reality and that weird person—corners of streets turning into an acceptable blur, neon signs inviting them to try out everything, the glimpse of laughter on a stranger 's face as their lips would touch—he blinks.

“Hey Zoro, you listening?”

“Yeah.”

Embarrassment causes him to lose his rhythm; Luffy doesn't appear to notice, sliding by his side, abandoning his back, leaving it cold and a little damp from the heat. Maybe he'll take a shower at his place, Zoro isn't certain of anything. He doesn't mind, honestly. He would, if it wasn't Luffy standing there, back on defending Chopper's great academics. For sure that kid-future-doctor is the sole person with a brain around there.

“You need to meet, with him, with everyone. You can't be only mine!”

_Why not _burns the tip of his tongue. He swallows, harshly, thinking of udon and chicken broth.

They sit, knees bucking against each other as the space is too small, invading the small table, cushions having vanished from the floor again. He struggles to fit, the urge to eat on the roof instead invading his sense. It's cramped, and he doesn't know why Luffy insists on inviting people over at any given time. He catches remains everywhere, from a bag of fresh tangerines with a note, to the fridge proudly covered in Chopper's projects. There must be others that Zoro doesn't know, music sheets or the sofa, or books falling on Luffy as soon as he opens the cupboard.

Laughter burns his throat, Luffy soon joining in. They are so different, he muses as the other fetches something viable to put in the microwave. Everything is dehydrated, nothing fresh cheap enough for them, outside of the fruits laying on the counter. All six of them, a fortune. Maybe he cares. Not for the tangerines, no matter how juicy and delicious they certainly are. Luffy returns minutes later, or rather he sits back down since the microwave is so close that Zoro only has to lift an arm to touch it. There is no space, nowhere left to breathe. Must be why the other is always roaming the streets, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

“Blow on it, like this!” That damn fool, showing off as he hands him chopsticks and a bowl of something which definitely smells like chicken and _safety_.

“I ain't gonna burn myself, dammit,” he notices though, the way Luffy's face turns sour at the sentence. Not because of the term, merely the shadow of another conversation sticking to his brain, invading his senses. Zoro isn't as observant as his non-friend, not as sharp, but he can tell. Familiarity once held close, perhaps something real and precious. Then it's gone, Luffy slurping his noodles loudly.

Competition is fun, keeping them entertained until their plastic bowls are empty and Luffy hurriedly gets up to make seconds. Zoro burned his tongue, by drinking the broth without waiting for it to cool down, and he sticks his face into a glass of water while wondering why he is still here.

Drops fall on his chin and he wipes them off without thinking, accepting the second bowl Luffy offers minutes later, a focused expression on his face. That's a lot of food, for sure. For them, for people living there who go by with what they have. Yet, Luffy cares enough to share. Although it's fairly different when he is invited somewhere, inhaling meals faster than hosts can provide. He has heard horror stories about that; funnily enough he doesn't remember where or from who. The human vacuum is humming again, calling him 'Zoro' with a mischievous grin in his eyes.

“I knew I'd get you to eat here today.”

“Good job, I guess.”

There are reasons, for getting lost so often. Under band-aids sticky with blood and scars no one has ever seen outside of careless opponents. Lost pieces and loose ends. Zoro doesn't mention them, watching the decrepit ceiling with the impression it's going to crush both of them at once.

“Will you come back?”

There is this hint of hope badly concealed, as Luffy leans forward, elbows invading wood, almost sending the coffee table to its death.

“Sure,” escapes him, tongue treacherous.

Luffy laughs.

They meet in a field, patches of dirt refusing to allow grass to grow back, green almost hidden under brown. There is an army between them, anger burning their veins, turning their words into threats as they separate the duo, not realizing they are trapped. Zoro is there because it sounded thrilling—Luffy however, he has this expression, sour and closed off, and immediately he wants to make these people pay for causing this—newcomers thinking they deserve to reign over a wasteland. Perhaps they do, who can tell? He doesn't like their hands, immaculate, covered in jewelery. Luffy's are rough against his skin, always trying to keep him grounded, to lead him somewhere_ better._

Zoro won't pretend being aware of who he's going to face. It's only eight of them anyway, not a big deal. Four each, he'd like to scream, looking cool in front of this mediocre audience. He doesn't have the time to do so, as Luffy is already stepping forward on his side. Are they working together once more? Zoro remembers knees touching and laughter in front of an old television who kept on buzzing against his ears. Aren't they friends now?

The first guy tells him to get lost, to avoid getting involved, and Zoro groans—why can't they spice this up? Rather than make fighting so boring?

Both hands are used, strength hard to muster after so many punches—he misses his wooden sword from high school, the way it shattered during a careless encounter and how he didn't feel like replacing it, hanging to broken remains under his bed instead—attempting to remove Luffy from the scene. Fear has grown in the pit of his stomach within seconds, faster than the weight of the 'all you can eat' special at his favorite fast food place. He's used to Luffy being cheeky, right in his personal space without any care, not that—

“Stop,” he almost shouts, except it would be bad, “stop he's unconscious.”

(Luffy sounds like it's short for something. At first, Zoro believed it was Luffian or something. But no, it's just _Luffy_.)

He breathes, as one of them has to, and right now his friend—shit, they are friends—isn't in the mood to chill. Once he has dragged him away enough, on top of a shitty hill where people dump their junk, he sits down, bringing the other with him. He isn't Luffy, able to chatter problems away, so he stays there, not attempting contact or anything like that. He waits.

It smells awful, the scorching sun not helping at all, and he would gag if he wasn't used to this shithole already. Luffy doesn't comment, still seething, ripping ugly grass off the ground for a while. Good, evacuating or some shit. Zoro takes time too, although it's to wipe the blood coating his brow before it falls lower.

“What's up with you?”

“They—” Luffy is screaming one second, and the following he is sitting in his lap, head buried against his shoulders, leaving Zoro warmer and concerned about the whole situation. Head pat? Back pat? Should he do both? “They wanted _me_, so they found Chopper' school and got my attention—”

Oh yeah, Zoro can tell why it's so wrong, beating up a kid for fun. That's the kind of message you cannot regret, as it's too evil to be forgiven. Chopper's what? Twelve? Fourteen? Either way, Zoro is even more glad they screwed these guys over completely during the fight. You don't take kids as bait, what's the point in even doing that? He allows Luffy to exhale against his shoulder, even if it sent a shiver running down his spine.

“My place then?”

“Yeah.”

There is no_ please or thank you_, not that Zoro was asking for either in the first place.

They walk in silence, arms brushing against each other; Luffy corrects him when he takes the wrong turn and neither of them mention it further.

Luffy steps out of the shower in mismatched clothes—Zoro might or might not use this shirt to remove the dust off furniture from time to time—injuries stable enough to get patched up. He does it mostly himself, with the arrogance of the kids who grew up here without a future. He wraps his wounds without care, aware bandages will come off soon enough anyway. Zoro imitates him, shirtless on the bed as he prides himself in having wrapped his knuckles before the fight started. Luffy—well he didn't decide it was compulsory. Drowsily, the youngest glares at plain band-aids, offended by their existence, before sticking them on his face, a little off each time.

Zoro finds—his heart reacts, beating unsteadily, as if it couldn't remember what life was outside of his short encounters with the other. With a groan, pushing himself upright on the bed, rather than slumping, he gestures for Luffy to join him.

“You are doing a terrible job, you know?”

“Then help?”

How annoying. With a smirk, he lets Luffy sits by his side, yanking a band-aid off to put another one where it should be.

“You jerk, what was that for?”

“Being a stubborn fool.”

“I'm just—”

“Protective of your kid and everyone you like, yeah, it's fine.”

Fingers tug at the back of his neck, forcing him to lean until their foreheads are touching. He wants to shout something—_I don't think I want you to get hurt like this, fight honestly, come to me if you need_—staring in silence instead. Luffy's breath is nice against his lips. It's almost enough to flush his face—screw that he probably looks ridiculous right now.

The thought stops him from blurting the words on the tip of his tongue, the kind you cannot take back without a fight, without breaking everything to rescue yourself from this faux-pas; _I love you_.

“Let's hang out more, Zoro, I like you.”

“Same,” he replies, sounding lame and slightly bothered by the proximity. He doesn't move though, because it's something greater than anything else. A start. He doesn't have to confess right now, as long as he doesn't bury his emotions forever. They have time, that's all. If his chest wasn't tight with anxiety, Zoro would dare doing more—pushing his lips forward only enough for contact, for anything at all—he grins, and it's enough.

After an eternity of silent promises and palms and foreheads pressed until they memorize each other skin, Luffy suddenly yanks himself back, almost hitting his head against the wall.

“I'm hungry, do you have food?”

“Who do you think I am? Take what you want.”

Lips press against his jaw in the blink of an eye, feathery touch, before Luffy is gone, running towards the opposite end of the flat. He stops in the door frame though, for a second.

“I know what I want.”

Once he hears loud complains about the state of his fridge, Zoro allows reality to anchor him one more.

“Good,” he whispers to himself, bracing hands against his knees to follow, “we want the same thing then.”

Months later, as Zoro is sandwiched between Chopper and someone whose name he hasn't memorized yet at in a small restaurant, he hears his boyfriend narrating how they fell in love while munching on his fries; he knows that home is a greater feeling than he thought, that it can be friends and lovers and eating together and _hoping._


End file.
